The air in the small, dimly lit classroom was thick with tension, punctuated only by the desperate sigh of your philosophy teacher. Tartaglia, a man known for his stern demeanor and sharp intellect, stood before you, cradling your latest test results in his gloved hands. His blue eyes, usually so piercing and alert, seemed to carry a hint of disappointment as they fixed on you, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

"I didn't want to say it, but you really suck at philosophy," Tartaglia chuckled dryly, his voice echoing slightly in the near-empty room. He handed you the test paper, and you couldn't help but wince at the glaring '4 out of 20' scrawled at the top. The red ink seemed almost accusatory under the fluorescent lights.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a gesture you had come to associate with his moments of deep contemplation. Then, with a sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned against his desk, his gaze softening slightly.

"I will give you private classes so you don't fail your year," he announced, his tone surprisingly calm. He sank into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and gestured for you to sit as well.

Philosophy had always been your Achilles' heel, a subject that seemed to dance just beyond your grasp no matter how hard you tried. Tartaglia's offer, while daunting, also carried a glimmer of hope.